Nine Minutes
by Goblin Cat KC
Summary: Nine minutes is an eternity when your brother's hands are wrapped around your throat. slash Mikey:Leo. Warning: asphyxiation.


**Nine Minutes**

by KC

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the turtles.  
**Other info**: kicked off by Damgel's story "Waterlogged," which reminded me that I like asphyx. Warning: asphyxiation is one of the most dangerous games. Even if it doesn't kill you, it can leave you permanently brain damaged.  
**Pairings**: Mikey/Leo

11:47

Lying on his bed, Leonardo stares at the ceiling and forces himself to breathe normally. It isn't easy. The longer he waits, the more inevitable it becomes. It will happen before midnight. Every tick of the clock grows louder, like a drop of water on tin, a hammer on brass, his heartbeat in his throat.

He glances at the clock again. In his dark room, it feels like a red spotlight.

11:48

Anticipation wells up in his stomach, poisoning him with adrenalin. His breath comes in a shaky rhythm. Soon. Too soon. Not soon enough.

11:49

The lair is silent. No one else is awake. He feels like the entire world has gone dark and left him behind. He feels like something in the darkness is watching him.

11:50

There's a whisper of movement at his door. He fists his hands in the sheet under him and tenses, refusing to look as his youngest brother quietly comes in. Michelangelo is too loud, a light touch of wind where there should be none, but they've trained him down to his utmost limit. Michelangelo is simply the noisy one. Noisy for a ninja. They all have their limitations and weaknesses, and they all help each other overcome them.

Michelangelo wastes no time. He comes beside Leonardo, leans over him and climbs onto the bed, straddling him. His knees hold Leonardo's arms pinned to his sides. His weight pushes him down on the frayed futon, and his hands gently close over Leonardo's throat. His thumbs rest on the firm cartilage there, then press down with the slightest force, cutting off his air.

Meeting Leonardo's gaze, Michelangelo silently sets about strangling his brother.

This is the easy part. There's only the faintest pressure in Leonardo's chest, a feeling like waiting as his body follows its training and smothers the panic that would make him thrash.

11:51

It's a false confidence. Although he feels like he could stay like this for long minutes, Leonardo knows from experience that the sensations will soon change.

11:52

Michelangelo readjusts himself on Leonardo's chest, but he doesn't let go. He's careful not to let his weight fall on his brother, supporting himself on his knees. That means a little more strength goes into the chokehold. It doesn't hurt Leonardo, but it makes his situation all the more inescapable.

11:53

Any untrained human would have passed out by now. Turtles can go for hours, even days. But they're not fully turtles and they're not human, either. They have no idea what their limit is if they fully train themselves.

11:54

There it is. Leonardo recognizes it like a creeping enemy. The sense of pressure building not in his lungs but in his head, as if the blood has turned thick and sluggish in his veins. The feeling moves from his head through his whole body, turning him a strange mix of cold and hot. His insides feel too warm. His skin feels like ice.

11:55

Pressure mounts. Leonardo's mouth opens just a fraction, instinctively trying for air. For Michelangelo, the sight of his brother helplessly caught entrances him, makes him lean closer. He feels Leonardo twist beneath him, small movements tamed by his weight. His brother's struggling eats up what small amount of oxygen he still has in him, and he feels Leonardo fight himself to stop it. It's hard to fight instinct.

In the clock's strong red glow, Leonardo looks like he's suffering tortures in a dungeon lit by firelight. Michelangelo's breath quickens. So hard to fight instinct.

11: 56

There's tingling in the back of his head, the very back, but it washes forward quickly as if something was crawling through his brain. The pressure in his lungs matches that crawl, straining to burst free and drag in another breath. Leonardo turns his head uselessly and tries to arch his neck for a wisp of air. Michelangelo's hands pivot with him, and while his thumbs don't move, the tip of his finger lightly brushes Leonardo's jaw.

11:57

The small movements become forceful jerks, trying to buck Michelangelo off, to displace him, dump him off the bed, anything. His heels dig uselessly in the futon and his hands clench tight into the sheets. He could probably twist his hands and find a pressure point on Michelangelo's legs to force him off, but that's against the rules.

11:58

Only Michelangelo's weight keeps him from outright thrashing. Leonardo opens his mouth, closes it, gritting his teeth in a silent wince. His eyes squeeze shut. The pressure has become fire in his head and lungs. His body rocks as it tries to drag in air, as if his chest might collapse itself in the effort. His back arches, raising Michelangelo slightly, and Leonardo grows as taut as a bow, shaking at the very edge of darkness.

The moment draws out in exquisite agony. Michelangelo stares in fascination. The look on his brother's face is the same as during a painfully powerful orgasm. Leonardo's eyes open a hair's breadth, but the look is unfocused, staring at Michelangelo and then beyond him as his sight obviously blurs.

11:59

The second that Leonardo begins to collapse, at the faint relaxing of the muscles before they completely falter, Michelangelo eases his grip. He allows a tiny breath, then a deeper one, so that Leonardo's gasp is quiet.

Leonardo barely moves except to breathe, utterly spent. The ice on his skin turns out to be a faint layer of cold sweat. His head still feels slow and sluggish, pounding in time with his heart. He stares at the rough stone wall beside the bed, seemingly oblivious as Michelangelo bends close and takes a kiss.

Michelangelo rests his forehead on Leonardo's temple and smiles.

"Nine minutes," he whispers. "Twelve seconds longer than last time."

"Still useless," Leonardo replies, but the words are slurred.

"Sure, you won't jump up to get back in a fight," Michelangelo says, and he lays down on him and touches his face by way of apology. "But it's twelve seconds longer I might have to save you."

Leonardo makes a small nod, conceding the point. Michelangelo crawls off him onto the side of the futon. It's narrow, but if he lies on his side and uses Leonardo as a pillow, they fit.

The clock casts a red glow across both of them. Michelangelo holds his hand out to see his skin colored like blood. In battle, twelve seconds can be an eternity. The seconds pile up on each other, making a lifetime that feels painfully fragile when compared to bullets and steel. The clock counts midnight, and Michelangelo wishes there was some way to slow the seconds down.

end


End file.
